


In the Dark

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Millicent prefers the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted November 2, 2003.

Darkness has ever been more her friend than the light. But she's never had many to count in the way of friends, so her perspective may be skewed somewhat.

She was always the one on the playground who was bigger than all the other little girls, and most of the boys as well. "Big-boned," her grandmother called her, and she is—tall and thick and broad of shoulder, long of foot. "A growing girl needs to eat," her grandmother also said, and so she had, until she couldn't _not_ eat. Her little sister is more willful, and refused meals as a child out of sheer stubbornness. She is tall and thin and blonde and delicate, and sneers in revulsion at her sister's thick thighs, pendulous breasts, overabundant gut. But she is a squib and has endured enough hexes to know not to vocalize whatever thoughts she may have on the matter.

If it bothered her that her little sister received gifts of sweets and kisses and bedraggled flowers clutched in small fists from eager little boys while they were in primary school, she didn't show it. She stole the sweets from her sister later, and ate them in her room at night.

Millicent was nine years old when she met Draco Malfoy, who was small and pointy and arrogant and kissed her under a birch tree just because he could. He kissed all the little girls at the Parkinsons' party, and even some of the older ones—fifteen, sixteen years old—who hoped to make an impression on the Malfoy heir. Millicent stood back and watched as he scrunched up his face in preparation for each kiss, clenching his eyes shut and puckering his lips. One of the older girls tried to slip him her tongue. He bit it.

That was when Millicent fell in love with him.

She wasn't like other girls who flirted and preened to get his attention. When he mocked her flying skills their first year at Hogwarts, she punched him, knocking him flat on his back. He tried to sic Crabbe and Goyle on her, but even they quailed at beating up a girl. Besides, at that point she could hit as hard as they could, and they knew it.

When Draco's other admirers through the years got too persistent and ignored his unsubtle hints to shove off, she had no qualms about doing so physically. This earned her no marks of gratitude from Draco. He accepted it as his due.

The first time she caught him snogging Pansy Parkinson, his hand on her breast, hers manipulating him through his trousers, she nearly doubled over from the arrow of pain that speared into her. She felt her lungs seize up as she backed away from the alcove where she'd stumbled across them. For all her heavy footfalls, they hadn't even noticed she was there.

That night, she let Goyle fuck her, thick and fast and clumsy, the room too dark to see his undoubtedly reddened face, but not to hear his porcine grunts in her ear, smell his breath, rank with meat and pumpkin juice, taste the stale sweat that dripped into her mouth as he worked over her. She might have cried if there were any room in her for such weakness, or such admission of weakness. She gritted her teeth and shoved him off when collapsed on top of her.

When Pansy showed up for breakfast the next morning smelling like Draco, Millicent didn't speak to her. Pansy asked questions; Millicent grunted in response. This did not vary overmuch from their usual routine, so Pansy didn't notice anything amiss. Draco didn't see how her eyes burned when she looked at him. But Draco never saw anything he didn't want to see. 

A week later, Pansy showed up to Potions with her hair mussed and her lips reddened, voice hoarse as she complained smugly of a cramp in her jaw. Draco eased into the classroom inconspicuous minutes later, eyes heavy with satisfaction, his mouth only quirking upward when Pansy licked her lips at him. Millicent slipped dragonwort root into Pansy's potion later in the lesson, prompting an adverse reaction that landed Pansy in the hospital wing for three days with perplexing mouth sores. 

In the evening, she went down on Crabbe under the Slytherin Quidditch stands, sickened at the sound of his grunts and moans, jerking his stubby cock roughly to bring him to climax faster, making him scream with a deliberate scrape of her teeth. He fisted his hands in her hair and held her down as he came in her mouth with an absurd shout of triumph, and she spat his come into his slack, blissful face.

When Blaise Zabini slipped into her room the next night, muttering something under his breath about Crabbe and Goyle, she let him crawl into her bed and take her from behind, his fingers digging into her fleshy hips, her hands pressed against the headboard as protection against the momentum of his overeager thrusts. His breath whistled in and out as his orgasm approached, and he came with a high-pitched, almost girlish shriek, pulling out and jerking his cock so that his semen splattered against the robes she'd rucked up over her backside. She shoved herself backward, knocking him off the bed, and he scrambled to his feet, growling. "Bitch," he hissed. "It's not like anyone wants you."

She stood and glared at him in the light of her bedside candle. "Then why bother coming here?"

"Why not? All cats look the same in the dark," he sneered, slapping a hand against her arse, hard, so that the flesh stung even through the layers of her robes, and he laughed at the way her thighs shook.

The following morning at breakfast, she watched Draco as he shoveled eggs into his mouth and glared daggers across the Hall at the Gryffindor table. She watched him swagger over to insult Potter and the Weasel over their Quidditch prowess. She watched him sweep from the Hall in his uniform, his arrogance almost a tangible thing. Later, she watched him miss the Snitch, again. 

Even later, she waited in a dark corner of the Slytherin common room and watched him stumble in, drunk and angry, most of the rest of the House already in bed, all of his teammates long since returned, having left him to drink alone in the changing room. He kicked a chair and flung a pillow across the room, noticing her only when she ducked to avoid it. He stood and watched her watching him, a smirk curling one corner of his lips as one hand began to unfasten his robes, then his trousers. She approached and pushed him back into an armchair, kneeling at his feet before the fire and taking his cock into her mouth. He wasn't more than half hard and fell asleep almost immediately, snoring slightly as the firelight traced the angles of his face. She tossed a throw over his lap and left him there. 

When Pansy was released from the hospital wing the next day, she complained loudly to Millicent that Draco had not visited her even once. Millicent shrugged and Draco pointedly ignored the entire spectacle. Pansy flounced off and curled herself around a very surprised Terry Boot, shooting challenging glances at Draco, who continued to ignore her. Millicent only watched, and Draco looked back at her, then turned away, as if disgusted.

As she prepared for bed that night, she stared into the mirror by wandlight, seeing lank hair and double chin and stretch marks on her arms and breasts and belly. She crossed her arms over herself, creases of flesh hiding little, the light casting broad shadows across dimpled skin. " _Nox_ ," she said, voice sharp, and there was nothing.

When Draco came to her that night, she'd left no candles burning. Nor the next night. Nor the next.

She knows, deep down, that for him it's only rebellion, convenience. She knows it can't last. She knows that Draco recoils slightly when he looks at her body, that he grits his teeth and thinks of England, or Voldemort, or whatever it is young Death Eaters think about in such circumstances. But she doesn't care. For the time being, it is _her_ skin Draco traces, _her_ hair Draco breathes into while he shoves himself in and out of _her_ body. It is she who feels the hot spatter of his sweat as he moves on top of her, she who is gifted with the sound of his hoarse grunt of release, she who breathes the vaguely sour smell of their commingled fluids in the moments before Draco rouses and lifts himself away from her, his cock sliding from her body, limp and wet, their skin adhered in patches. It is her thighs that are sore, her skin reddened from the violent slap of flesh on flesh, her cunt sticky with his come.

And in the hours after he leaves her bed, it is she who stares dry-eyed into the darkness. Down here, there is no sunlight to herald the dawn.


End file.
